


Clint Barton Does Things

by Fanfic_For_The_Void



Category: Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, Gen, Humor, New York City, clint is bad at adulting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 13:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19906393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanfic_For_The_Void/pseuds/Fanfic_For_The_Void
Summary: Clint's alarm clock doesn't go off, and he's about to be late for an appointment with his ear doctor. He's going to do whatever it takes to be on time for this.





	Clint Barton Does Things

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a funky little fic I wrote based on the statement "Clint Barton has crashed into a wall at some point and apologized to it". I took that idea and ran with it, so here we are :)

**Clint Barton Does Things**

The morning sunlight trickled through the curtains of Clint Barton’s bedroom. He opened bleary eyes to the sight of a doggy face near his. Oh yes. That would explain the pressure on his bladder and rib cage.

“Hey Lucky,” he mumbled, sighing as he gave the dog a scratch, then a gentle shove. Lucky willingly scooted over. Clint rolled his aching body to the other side of the bed. The bruises from last night’s skirmish were making themselves known. Glancing at his alarm clock Clint wished he was still asleep. 8:32 it read. His soundless alarm of flashing lights should have gone off more than half an hour ago. He was going to be late for the otolaryngologist. 

He pulled himself out of bed, and threw on some clothes. Socks, where were his socks? He pawed through the pile of clothes that rested on his desk chair. Nothing.

He slid into his miniscule kitchen. Lucky padded along behind him, tongue lolling in doggy excitement. He opened the fridge door. It was pathetically empty. There were some condiments, beer, and one dubious apple. Clint opted for the apple, biting into it as he searched for a sweater. It was powdery and unsatisfying, but better than nothing. He took another bite and frowned. Spitting into the sink he spotted the problem. He had eaten the fruit sticker. Yum.

Clint ran a hand through his already disastrous blond hair and fumbled in the bowl by the door for his keys, wallet and hearing aids. If he planned it just right he might be able to make it on time to Dr. Oyama’s. She was one of the best ear doctors in the city (thanks Avengers) but she was a stickler for punctuality.

Shoes? No socks. Clint sighed. Only one option. He slipped on his purple crocs. They were a gag gift from the spider kid, but when he went to the gym (ha) and used the showers there they were actually useful. He checked the apartment one last time. Lucky had enough food and water last until he got back. 

Clint locked up and put on his hearing aids as he jogged to the elevator. He pressed the button a few times, adjusting the volume on his aids as he waited. The elevator arrived with little delay, and before too long he was out on city streets. The weather was unremarkable, overcast but not rainy. He trudged to the subway station. The crowds today were fairly minimal, for New York that is.

Clint scanned his metro pass. You would think that there would be some sort of special Avengers subway discount, but no. He paid the same $2.75 per subway ride everyone else did, not that he minded. He made enough money to support himself.

He was forced to sprint to catch his train, his muscles complaining as he did so. He really hated the day after a fight.

“Stupid… Alarm clock…” he panted, sliding into the car just as the doors were about to close. There were no seats left, so he grabbed one of the sticky orange straps hanging from the ceiling. The subway was filled with the usual variety of people. There was a tall man in a stunning neon yellow jacket, and a woman yelling into a cellphone.

“I helped you in the past! I helped you!” Clint heard her exclaim. There was even a homeless woman sleeping on three or so of the seats. Was that a mouse in her pocket?

Clint’s eyes caught on a man in a black beanie. He was standing facing a corner, arm forming a cage with the wall. Between him and the metal of the subway was a woman. She was looking around the man trying to make eye contact with someone. She had pressed herself against the wall, and didn’t seem very comfortable.

Clint met her eyes and nodded. He could see her deflate a little. Relief. The leering man laughed loudly, and the woman smiled nervously. Clint began making his way through the crowd towards the woman. He cut in on the other side of the douchebag.

“Hey, I haven’t seen you in forever. Who thought I’d run into you here?” Clint called. “How have you been?”

The woman whirled to face him.

“Great, thanks. How are the kids?” She replied, extricating herself from the creep. The man shot Clint and the woman a nasty look and made his way towards the subway doors.

The woman relaxed visibly once the man disembarked at the next station.

“Thanks,” she sighed. “Nice improvisation.”

Clint offered a small smile.

“You too. World needs less guys like him.”

The subway speakers chimed.

“We will be experiencing a short delay due to technical difficulties. Please exit at this station and change trains, or remain seated,” the synthesized voice stated.

“Really?” Clint mumbled. He did  _ not _ have time for this. He shuffled out of the car with many of the other patrons, and made his way back to the outdoors. A light drizzle had begun to fall.

There was no way he could make it all the way to Dr.O’s place walking, unless… 

Clint began to jog. If he could find the right alleyway this just might work. Past the Rat Hole (a dubious pizza parlour) and before the muppet painted fire hydrant, or was it after the muppet fire hydrant and before the tree covered in old shoes? Clint felt like the latter was probably right, and he cut into the dingy space between the two buildings there. 

Success. Under a peeling blue dumpster was a simple black backpack. In it, Cint had stored a bow and some snacks.

Opening the bag, Clint pulled out the bow. It was older, but collapsible, so good for the city. Clint pulled out one of his more useful arrows, the grappling hook one. He backed up until he hit the other side of the alley, startling some sparrows that were picking at the garbage. He fired the hook at the opposing building and-

Success. Now he just had a bunch of climbing to do. Great.

A few minutes later he hauled himself over the edge of the roof, panting. He really should hit the gym more often. Fighting criminals was one thing, but this? Oof.

He stood up, and scanned the horizon. A nice diagonal across the roofs could take him to Dr. O’s in maybe ten minutes, the road alternative would have taken at least twenty.

Clint ran and climbed his way across the rooftops fairly uneventfully. At one point he encountered a janitor who seemed fairly unfazed by a bow wielding man in crocs sprinting by him.

Finally, Clint reached the correct building. He collapsed onto the pebbly surface of the roof, folding up his bow. The fire escape was easy to locate. He clattered down it, suffering with a stiff ladder at the bottom. 

“Come on you stupid hunk of metal,” he complained, giving it a halfhearted kick. The ladder groaned, and slid down to the ground reluctantly.

‘Okay, didn’t actually think that would work,” Clint remarked, clambering down the rusty rungs. A few pigeons scattered when his feet hit the ground, but one pigeon stood resolutely between him and the door to the building.

It was one of those pigeons you could tell was a bully, because it was so much larger than all its buddies, fat from stolen scraps. It cooed, but to Clint it sounded almost angry. He sidestepped the bird. He had more important things to do than fight with a pigeon. Jogging through the doors he checked his watch. Two minutes. He mashed the elevator button. It didn’t light up. Clint glanced up.

“Out of Order” the LED display above the doors read.

“Great.”

Clint scanned the lobby. Stairs. It was time to move it. He broke into a run, pounding up the steps full tilt. How exciting that Dr. O’s was all the way up on the sixth floor. Sliding into the hall, he didn’t quite make the corner and collided with the wall on the right hand side.

“Sorry!” he called, dashing the last few feet into the otolaryngologist’s office. Just in time.

“Hi, appointment for Clint Barton?” he gasped as he approached the receptionist’s desk.

“Barton?” the woman queried. He was doubled over, panting in front of the desk.

“Yeah. I’m here on time.”

“I’m afraid your appointment isn’t until tomorrow. Today is Wednesday, not Thursday,” she replied with professional courtesy.

Clint Barton cursed. Loudly.


End file.
